If The Stars Still Silently Bless You
by March
Summary: “You can tell your wife is panicked when she’s rattling off medical terminology at full speed.” Alternate Season Five. Nominated for a Jed!
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER: They're not my characters, but, um, I don't have any money, so honestly? It's not worth suing me.  
  
RATING: PG  
  
FEEDBACK: I get warm fuzzy feelings when I get feedback.  
  
SUMMARY: "You can tell your wife is panicked when she's rattling off medical terminology at full speed."  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the first in a series about what happens when Bartlet discovers he has secondary progressive. Consider this the prologue.  
  
THANKS: To Elizabeth, for beta-ing and rocking in the process, and to www.mult-sclerosis.org for helping me understand MS a bit better.  
  
IF THE STARS STILL SILENTLY BLESS YOU (PROLOGUE)  
  
Secondary progressive. Secondary progressive. The awful words almost have a rhythm. They warned it might happen, back when I was first diagnosed. Why didn't I believe them?  
  
I woke up this morning, and I couldn't remember what very important fact I was just going to share with Abbey. Normally, I wouldn't be this alarmed, but this has been going on for a long time.  
  
I've been thinking about last week.  
  
****  
  
Charlie came in, asking me if I wanted to go home.  
  
"Charlie, did you read the briefing on--" and this is when I panicked. What was I about to say? I had just had it.  
  
"Sir, are you okay?" I saw his brows furrow worriedly.  
  
"Yeah, I'm just--" Then I was frustrated and confused. "Listen, did you do what you were supposed to do earlier today?"  
  
"Sir, should I call a doctor?"  
  
"No, I'm fine." And then I remembered suddenly. "Yeah, did you read the briefing on HR-4668?  
  
"Yes. Sir--"  
  
"Don't worry about it, Charlie." My words must have come out a lot harsher than I'd meant it to, because Charlie gives me an injured look before turning away. I didn't mean to, but I was tired. And frustrated with myself.  
  
****  
  
And then I jar myself back to the present. My wife is up, taking off her robe and yawning. "Hey, sweetie," she says.  
  
"Hi. You're up early."  
  
"The call woke me."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"Don't worry about it."  
  
"Okay." I sit up in bed and wince. It's getting harder and harder for me to get up as each day passes.  
  
"When are you going to see the doctor?" she asks, pulling a sweatshirt on over her bra. She's traveling for a few days. For the next week or so, I'll lose her to Argentina. Or Guatemala. Or whichever South American country has demanded her attention.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Don't put this off, Jed. Remember what the doctor said." She's got this face on, as if she's trying to be cheerful. But I've been married to her for thirty-something years. I can tell when she's worried.  
  
"I don't have time."  
  
"Jed--"  
  
I get out of bed and cross over to hug her. As I hold her in my arms, I put a gentle hand on her head. "I'll be okay."  
  
Then she gives me this look. "If anything happens, call me, okay?"  
  
"You know I will, babe."  
  
****  
  
I find that work throughout the day is more fatiguing than usual. Charlie's not the only one who's expressed concern.  
  
Josh, for example, keeps asking me if he needs to repeat information. God, I must look really zoned out. CJ has offered to write down my briefing, and Leo has suggested I stay out of the Sit Room. I know they're right, but I have a job to do, right?  
  
At the end of the day, Charlie comes back. "Is there anything I can do, sir?"  
  
"No, I'm fine." Now I just feel irritated. I know all of my staff's intentions are good, but they're driving me nuts. I am a grown adult, after all.  
  
Scrap that, I'm the President of the United States.  
  
"Sir--"  
  
"Charlie, when Zoey was young she used to have this walk my wife used the call the 'slump walk.'"  
  
Charlie is looking confused but I plow right on. "She used to drag her feet on the ground, bending forward, and she'd stare at us with this really glazed over look."  
  
Suddenly, he stares back at me as if he understands. Really, you can't get anything past him. "Your MS is flaring up."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's just flaring up now, right? It's not--"  
  
"Secondary progressive? Yeah, we think so. It's been going on for awhile now. I'm going to call the doctor and if I'm diagnosed I would imagine I onlyhave so long before I have to step down."  
  
There's a long pause while Charlie tries to grasp this, and I look down at my papers I've been given throughout the day. Quietly, he says, "You should really stay up on the tax reform bill. Josh has been going nuts." And then he slips out slowly, shutting the door behind him.  
  
****  
  
"Dad!" Zoey beams when she comes into my room. She's just flown back from Manchester. A few months after the kidnapping, she's doing fine.  
  
"How're you doing, sweetie?" I say,  
  
"I'm doing fine. I missed you, Dad. Elizabeth has been driving me crazy. She came up to Manchester for awhile, too, and she's been looking over me like a mother hen. Honestly, I don't need Mom." She laughs. God, it feels good to hear her laugh. "Mom's worried about you," she says, suddenly looking serious.  
  
"Well, the day Mom stops being worried about me is the day we should all be worried," I laugh. "From about the second day we were married: Jed, be careful before you cross the street..."  
  
Zoey laughs again, and does a perfect impression of her mother. "Be careful out there, honey, and remember, yell 'fire', not 'help', if someone is chasing you."  
  
We both laugh at that, and then we're both quiet. Zoey's last statement has hit a little too close to home for comfort.  
  
"I've been thinking, Dad," she says, leaning her head against my shoulder. "You know how Jean-Paul is a complete jerk?"  
  
Like she has to tell me twice. "Yeah."  
  
"Well, I was thinking about forgiving him."  
  
"You mean publicly? Send a message to France saying we harbor no grudges against their country?"  
  
"No, that's your job," she says. "Head of state and all that."  
  
"Okay. What do you mean?"  
  
"Just me and him, maybe a secret service man or two, in a room, and I can tell him I don't hate him."  
  
"That's wonderful of you, honey," I say, my heart swelling with pride. I've raised my children right.  
  
"Not because I want to, Dad," she says, sighing heavily. "It's because I keep thinking about church although I haven't gone in a long time."  
  
That's something that's always bothered me about my children, but there's not much I can do; they're grown women, after all.  
  
She continues. "Remember Sister Catrina?"  
  
"Yeah." I chuckle. She was a character.  
  
"Although she was a frumpy lady, she was pretty smart, you know, and she always reminded her Sunday school class they should forgive. So I feel obliged to forgive Jean-Paul. Only I don't know how. I need your help."  
  
My help? My only desire is to beat Jean-Paul into a bloody pulp. "I don't know if I'm the right person for that, Zo'."  
  
"You love God the most out of any person I've ever seen," she says, as tears come to my eyes. I hug her tightly, because it hasn't always been that easy.  
  
****  
  
"Sir, HR-4668 drafting session is going on right now. We have to make it clear we don't agree with corporations getting the largest tax breaks," Josh is saying during a senior staff meeting. "They'll ask for your input right after the session."  
  
"Okay, I think it's pretty self-explanatory. I don't agree with corporations getting the largest tax breaks. I can remember that," I say.  
  
Toby nods. "I can write you a quick speech to give to the corporations."  
  
"The oil and gas special interests are going to be furious," CJ warns, as I can feel my concentration fade. "You're going to have to smooth the way..."  
  
"Yes," says Will's voice, as it fades in, "but that's not the only special interest we should be worried about..."  
  
"The Republicans are going to be furious..." says another voice.  
  
"Sir, are you okay?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
And that's the last thing I hear before I lose all consiousness.  
  
****  
  
When I wake up, all I can see is a very blurry Leo.  
  
After I realize I must have been taken upstairs to bed.  
  
"Are you all right, sir?" he asks, bending over me. I smile, because I know he knows the answer; he's just being polite.  
  
"Yeah. I don't want to call Abbey."  
  
"You know you have to, sir. I called her to tell her all about it, and she went off on me about-- what was it?" he flattens out a crinkled piece of paper in his hand. "Myoclonus, Monoparesis, Dysarthria, and Footdrop."  
  
"Yeah, I don't know what any of that means."  
  
"Me either. She made me write it down. I'm not even sure if I'm pronouncing it right.You can tell your wife is panicked when she's rattling off medical terminology at full speed."  
  
We sit there in silence for a minute. "Leo, could you step out for a minute? I'm going to call my wife. Tell the staffers and my daughter that I'm all right."  
  
****  
  
Abbey picks up the phone and I can tell she's frantic. "Are you okay?" are the first words she blurts out when I say 'hello, sweetie.'  
  
"Yeah. I just woke up,"  
  
"Should I come home?"  
  
"You don't have to do that. I'm going to call the doctor tonight."  
  
"Jed--"  
  
"It'll be fine. We'll know for sure."  
  
"Yeah." And I can tell she's crying over the phone. "I love you."  
  
"I love you, too."  
  
I hold the reciever to my ear and I listen to Abbey cry for awhile. I long to cry, too, but I know I have to stay strong for my wife.  
  
After she stops crying, she tells me about South America, and about the beautiful mountains, and about how she wishes I was there, too.  
  
God, how I wish I was there, too. 


	2. It All Goes Away Sometimes

DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters. If you tried to sue me, all I could give you is about twenty dollars and my dorm room, which I don't think you'd want, so just know these characters aren't mine.  
  
SUMMARY: "Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end."  
  
SPOILERS: Up through Han, just to be on the safe side. What's going on in the West Wing universe is paralleled with this, only a little different.  
  
FEEDBACK: I love it! It's like playing in the leaves on a fall day!  
  
THANKS: So much thanks go to Elizabeth, for rocking with the editing.  
  
IT ALL GOES AWAY SOMETIMES  
  
Toby's sitting in the waiting room at George Washington Hospital, longing for a cigarette, because the President's in the middle of a CAT scan and it's possible that this moment is the beginning of the end.  
  
I'm in the other side of the waiting room, trying to interest myself in magazines, trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang's going to be more popular this January during the State of the Union, and then tossing it all aside because we might not have another State of the Union.  
  
And I'm coming up with something to say to a room full of reporters.  
  
****  
  
I've perfected the art of spin. You always vow to be honest and straight- forward, but it's almost impossible today to be a successful presidential administration and not spin. So I know when I can stretch the truth in our favor.  
  
And then sometimes there's just the simple truth. There's this one moment when you stand in front of the press and say, "The President complained of some of the symptoms of MS shortly after the Fourth of July. He suspects his MS may have progressed to Secondary Progressive and is currently undergoing a series of tests."  
  
And then there are the questions. "CJ? If the President is diagnosed, will he step down?"  
  
God, I have no idea. "Katie, he will step down when he feels as if he can no longer fulfill his duties as President."  
  
"CJ? Don't you feel as though he should hand over the power to Bob Russell?"  
  
"That's not my call, Chris, it's President Bartlet's, and like I said, we have no idea whether the disease has progressed, but as of right now the President feels as if he can fully carry out his duties."  
  
****  
  
I close the magazines for the last time. I've been trying to get myself interested in the articles, but I just can't, not with this going on.  
  
I wander over to where Toby's sitting, most likely reading about the tax reform bill. Yesterday's drafting session didn't go in our favor. Josh is sitting in on negotiations on the Hill. I know he'd much rather be here, but it's a stark reminder that life really does go on.  
  
"Tobus," I say, sitting down and peering over at his pile of folders. "What are you looking at?"  
  
"None of your business," he says, but I can tell he's trying to hold back a smile.  
  
"I'm trying to make small talk here," I say, trying to break the ice. The past few hours have been difficult on him. Hell, the past few years have been hard on him.  
  
He used to have this dream he'd tell me late at night before I went off to Hollywood. He wanted to find a good man to be President.  
  
Unfortunately, when he found Jed Bartlet, I think he associated a 'good man' with a perfect man. When Toby found out about the MS three years ago- God, can can it really be three years?- it broke him somehow. I'm afraid that these recent developments are killing him.  
  
"You're not doing a very good job," he decides, picking up a briefing and feigning interest.  
  
"Well, they never said small talk was my strong point."  
  
"No."  
  
Suddenly, a small entourage of Secret Service agents walk into the waiting room, followed close behind by Abigail Bartlet. She's unusually pale, although you can tell the South American sun made her darker than she was before.  
  
"Is he still in there?" she asks, approaching the two of us and gesturing towards the back room with her head.  
  
"Yeah. He should be out soon, ma'am," I say, standing. Toby is close behind me, and I watch him as he buttons up his jacket. "We weren't expecting you home so soon."  
  
"Well, I wasn't going to come home," she says, gesturing for the two of us to sit down. When we all take seats, she continues. "I was talking to this woman in Guatemala, and her husband has been having a lot of health problems. She said she has to work hard to pay for food for her children since her husband has trouble finding work. But she said that if he became any worse she'd do anything to drop everything and stay with him until the end." She sighs and looks over the two of us. "If you see Jed before I do, don't tell him I came back."  
  
And then she wanders over to where I sat before, picking up this month's Vogue, and I wonder if she's trying to decide whether Armani or Vera Wang would suit her better this January.  
  
****  
  
Fifteen minutes later the President staggers out of the examination room. He's apparently so tired he doesn't even comment that his wife is home early. He has bags under his eyes. The doctor follows him out and says, "It usually takes a few days before we can make a diagnosis, but we'll make him top priority. You guys should know by tonight."  
  
"Thank you, doctor," Abbey says quietly, as she takes her husband's arm. "Let's go, Jed."  
  
And since we have nothing else to do, we follow them out to the parking lot.  
  
****  
  
"Any news?" Josh asks, swinging open my door and standing there impatiently.  
  
"Why, Josh," I respond, peering over my glasses, "God gave you knuckles so you could knock."  
  
"Well, no one ever knocks at my door, so I don't see why you should get special treatment. Any news?" Josh repeats. "We'll know tonight. Relax. In the meantime, how did negotiations go?"  
  
"Donna's on the phone. We lost six key votes during the drafting session."  
  
"Samuels, Grant, Stevens, and who else?"  
  
"Toystoy, Zimmer, and Williams," Josh responds, sitting down on my couch.  
  
"Wait. Zimmer's from Ohio, right?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"He's never voted for us before. Why are we worried now?"  
  
"Because he would vote for the bill if we changed one key amendment."  
  
"And that is--?"  
  
"He doesn't like the fact we're raising the tax rates on corporations."  
  
"Oh, is that all?" I snap sarcastically. "Wouldn't it be more beneficial if we attacked Turner from Missouri?"  
  
"No, because Turner stated very flatly that he would vote against the bill."  
  
"But he usually votes for us." I am monumentally confused now.  
  
"Yeah, but he doesn't think the President's enough of a threat now, what with the possible--"  
  
"MS," I say softly. "Well, keep me posted. I have an evening press conference, and if we still don't know the outcome of the President's MS, the tax bill's going to dominate."  
  
"Yeah." He stands. "When are we supposed to know--?"  
  
"We'll know when we know!" I snap. Josh is like my little brother, but there are days when he can get on your last nerve. Kind of like a little brother, really.  
  
"Yeah," he says softly, and shuts the door behind him.  
  
****  
  
And because things rarely go the way I need them to, the results of the President's MS comes in the middle of the briefing, in the middle of talking about tax bills and getting more votes.  
  
Carol hands a hastily-written note to me and I read it. "Okay. Five minutes ago the results of the MS exam came in. President Bartlet has been diagnosed with secondary-progressive MS." And then I count the minutes.  
  
One minute. "CJ, are there any definitive plans for the President to step down?"  
  
I am dealing with this myself, and I have no words left in me. But I have to go on anyway. "No, there are no definitive plans."  
  
Two minutes.  
  
"CJ? Will the First Family make a public statement?"  
  
"I've only just got the information now. I can't comment on whether there will be a public statement."  
  
Three and I must blink back the frustration so I don't seem weak.  
  
"CJ! What are the symptoms of secondary progressive?"  
  
This is easy. Eventual blindness, muscle weakness, maybe paralysis. Loss of cognitive reasoning. My mind reels as I relay the information. Information that I know by heart, and I'm grateful to whoever asked me that question, because I now have a chance to collect my own thoughts. This is a question I can answer in my sleep. You'd think, however, after we spent six months educating the public on why relapsing-remitting MS won't impair the Presiden's ability to fulfill the oath of office, they'd stop asking me these questions.  
  
Four minutes and the press conference is over.  
  
I leave Danny alone, behind me as I step out into the hallway, because I know he'll ask me questions, and I know that I will cry.  
  
I meet a subdued group hanging out in Donna's bullpen. Their faces are pale and I need someone to say something. Josh, Toby, Donna, Will, none of them say a word.  
  
Apparently it's up to me. "Well, guys," I say, trying to stay calm, "what's next?" 


	3. Another Start

DISCLAIMERS are all in the first part of If The Stars Still Silently Bless You. Spoilers up through Disaster Relief.  
  
A/N: If this were to have a subtitle, it would be named The Story That Almost Gave Me Gray Hair. (tm Elizabeth, my extraordinary beta-reader.) Speaking of her, thanks for limiting the gray hairs. Oh, yeah, and thanks for the editing, too. ;)  
  
This is dedicated to all of you students who have to eat yucky cafeteria food. Don't touch the Salisbury steak. Trust me.  
  
ANOTHER START  
  
CJ and I are lying on our backs on my living room floor, drunk.  
  
CJ's the first to say something after a long time. "I just yelled at the President."  
  
"I told my boss to suck it up today," I add. Then I find myself giggling. "Suck it up. Get it?"  
  
She turns to me and smiles, or maybe it's a grimace. "They're cutting back on Josh's job. Leo doesn't like us anymore," I continue.  
  
"Well, I'm about to get fired." She looks at her mug for a long time. "I'm drunk," she decides.  
  
"At least it doesn't hurt anymore. My heart hurted. I mean, hurt."  
  
"Mine, too." And then she sits upright, sloshing beer all over herself. "You know what my favorite thing to do is? Dance. We can dance, and then we'll feel better."  
  
"I don't dance."  
  
"I won a competition in the tenth grade, baby. I could be the leader of any dancing group. You know, I just do the Jackal, and people laugh. Toby even laughs." She stands and begins shaking her hips to her own music.  
  
I stand, too and nearly trip over Danielle's damn cats. Why do they have to be so underfoot all the time? And more importantly, why do they have to live with us?  
  
"Dance with me, Donna," CJ says, finally putting her beer down and turning on my CD player. Danielle really likes Miles Davis, and a soothing jazz tune soon fills the air. She begins to shake her hips again, and the rhythm does not fit her movements.  
  
I dance, reluctantly, and then let myself surrender to the music. It really does feel better.  
  
After one of the tracks finishes, CJ sits down on my couch, looking exhausted. "Oh, Donna. Are we dancing because we're drunk or because the President has MS?"  
  
I turn off the music and sit down next to her. "We're dancing because we've survived an assasination attempt, a kidnapping, coming clean about a disease, and the fact that I expect we don't have much longer to enjoy ourselves in the White House."  
  
She nods just as the phone rings.  
  
"Hang on." I roll my eyes and trip over Beady, who's taking turns staring at me and his food bowl with the biggest eyes I've ever seen. "Weren't you just fed?" Good Lord, here I am, talking to my roommate's cat.  
  
The phone rings again and it's making my head hurt. "Donna Moss," I say in what I hope is a professional voice.  
  
"Donna, it's Isabella Lyman," comes an urgent voice. "I've been trying to call Joshua at work, and at home, and I can't find him. He's been missing for several hours."  
  
Why is Josh's mother calling me? And how did she get my number?  
  
"Well, I'm sure he's around, I just--" and then it hits me. Josh is missing. Talk about sobering up fast. "Um, let me go look for him."  
  
"I wouldn't burden you with that, dear. I just wanted to see if he was with you. He speaks so highly of you, and I wanted to figure out where he's been. You see, I saw the article in the paper, and I'm very concerned."  
  
I'm vaguely aware of heat rising to my face. Josh speaks highly of me to his mother? I try not to grin like an idiot.  
  
"Well, I'll find him and have Josh call you," I say.  
  
"Thanks, dear. Let me know as soon as you can."  
  
We hang up and I dial his cell phone number.  
  
No answer.  
  
"What's going on in there?" CJ yells.  
  
"We can't find Josh."  
  
"You can't find Josh? Where'd you put him?" And then she laughs as if this is the funniest thing she's ever heard.  
  
I wonder back into my living room and sit down on the couch. "His mother just called and she's frantic."  
  
The news that Josh is missing is enough to permeate CJ's semi-pickled brain.  
  
"Do you have any idea where he might be?"  
  
"I have suspicions. CJ, what if he's having a PTSD attack? What if he's--"  
  
"Go, Donna. Wherever you might think he is. Go. I'll be fine. I'll walk."  
  
"Okay."  
  
I dart outside and drive towards the Capitol Building. I know technically I shouldn't be driving, but I can feel myself slowly sobering up. Besides, there are more important things right now. When I get out of the car, I walk to the bench outside of the Senate. He's right where I thought he might be. "Hey, Josh," I say, slowly walking towards him, "you're not PTSD-ing on me, are you?"  
  
"Huh?" he says, eyebrows raised and looking too damn cute with all the dimples. "You can't really say PTSD-ing. It's not a verb."  
  
I choose this moment to sit down next to him on the bench. "Doesn't really matter. You know, you really scared us, disappearing like that. Your mother saw the papers. She got worried when she couldn't reach you."  
  
He mumbles something unintelligably.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said I'm thinking about quitting."  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"I am too. Leo's mad at me, the President's mad at me. Leo cut down on my job and hired Angela to take my place. It's only a matter of time before we have to step down anyway. I'd suggest you leave. Find yourself a better job. Go back to college."  
  
"Okay, Josh. First of all, the Senator would have left the party anyway."  
  
"How do you know?" Suddenly he looks like a child, raising his chin and pouting at me defiantly. I have an urge to take this child and hold him close to me, but that's beyond the point.  
  
"Well, I think he was cooking for awhile. Just because someone torks you off it doesn't mean you just leave the party. If we changed political affiliation everytime someone torked us off, we'd be so conservative we'd be forcing women to have the baby even when they'd be hurt and wreaking havoc on the EPA." I take a deep breath. "Second of all, I can't leave you, Josh. I won't leave you. That would be something like betrayal."  
  
He smiles a little, but then goes right back to looking depressed. "Yeah, but Leo obviously thought I did something wrong."  
  
This presents a dilemma. Margaret had come to me earlier this morning to tell me she'd heard Abbey yell at Leo, blaming him for Zoey's kidnapping. Ever since then, he'd been on a rampage, yelling at Margaret, blaming the senior staff for everything that went wrong, you get the picture. The one problem? I'd promised Margaret I wouldn't tell anyone. After all, she wasn't supposed to know.  
  
"What's with the silence?" Josh asks, startling me out of my reverie.  
  
"Nothing." "Something's wrong."  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
He sighs and I look out at the surrounding scenery. Washington D.C. is truly beautiful this time of year. I decide to keep my promise to Margaret for now. "Leo's been... acting strange ever since Zoey was kidnapped," I begin, lamely.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I'm not sure what pushes me forward, but somehow what I've just said isn't enough. "Um, we're all under a tremendous amount of pressure, Josh. I mean, God, you've done so well with the tax negotiations. The President's sick, and we've all been trying to hold it in for a long time." Tears well up in my eyes, against my will. "Leo's like that, too. I mean, I really think he needs a friend. We're so used to him being our boss we forget he's human." I laugh a little, and the tears fall. "Maybe you could just be a friend,"  
  
Josh looks at me, as if he doesn't know what to do with his over-emotional assistant who's just lost it. "You know something, don't you?"  
  
God. I hope I'm not blushing. Why is it that he can read me so well? "Yes,"I admit. "But I can't tell you."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I just-- thanks for letting me cry."  
  
"You feel better?"  
  
"Well, no, not really, because it's cold outside, and it makes my nose run."  
  
And then he laughs. It's not a short, bitter laugh, but a true, warm one. I haven't heard him laugh like this--God, since before Rosslyn.  
  
"What did I do?" I ask. "You're laughing. Warmly."  
  
"You can be really funny sometimes. It's all, you understand, accidental humor."  
  
"Oh, gee, thanks," I retort. "So all this time I've been trying to make you laugh it's been for nothing?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," he says, standing up and motioning for me to take his arm.  
  
"You know if anyone we know sees us like this they're gonna--"  
  
"Let them look," he whispers.  
  
"Call your mother," I whisper back as we head out to the car.  
  
****  
  
The next day in the mess hall, Margaret comes up to me with her usual gossip. "The President talked to Leo last night," she says, eyes shining. "I can tell. Leo-- well, he's scaring me." She slides in across from me at a table. "He sent me flowers."  
  
"Did he really?" I ask, shocked. "Did someone possess him?" I don't really want to tell her I have a sneaking suspicion Bartlet was not the person who spoke to Leo last night. My heart swells with pride for Josh.  
  
"No, it was an apology." She leans in closer to me. "Donna, I'm going to tell you something."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You can't tell anyone, because I don't know for sure."  
  
"Spit it out."  
  
She writes it down on her napkin. "I think Leo might be drinking again." Then she tears it up and looks at me.  
  
"I've been scared of that," I whisper.  
  
"Me, too."  
  
"What can we do, though?"  
  
"I'll drop hints," she says in her business-like tone.  
  
"Okay."  
  
She gets up, and stands over me for a minute. "Thanks, Donna."  
  
"Okay."  
  
When she leaves I find I can only pick at my food.  
  
****  
  
"Joshua? Eat your food." When I come back upstairs, I barge into Josh's office, only to become irritated at the fact that my boss isn't eating, either.  
  
"I can't eat."  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Negotiations on the tax bill isn't going well. Leo's in his office right now, deciding with the President and Angela if I'm allowed to have my job back. I can't eat."  
  
"We can't have the deputy chief of staff waste away in hunger when he gets his job back, can we?"  
  
"You try to eat this. They call this Salisbury steak. It's like, I dunno... Playschool food. With salt. That's what this tastes like. It's medium rare, too."  
  
He makes a face, and I try not laugh at my boss's candid opinion of food that hasn't been burned.  
  
"What are you talking about, Joshua?"  
  
"I don't know." He sighs, and comes around to the front of the desk. He uses his fork to dump the meat into the wastebasket.  
  
"Joshua! There are starving children in the Middle East!"  
  
"There are starving children all over the world," he says darkly.  
  
My heart plummets. Did I say something wrong? I make a mental note to myself that the next time I accept a job, I will not work for someone with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, even if he does have dimples. "Josh, I'm--"  
  
"It's okay," he says, shaking his head.  
  
"Did you call your mother?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good."  
  
Suddenly Leo knocks on the door. God, he seems moody again."Josh, we've come to a decision. We've decided to give you full duties again. Angela will have Mandy's job. She'll be our political mind."  
  
He slams the door shut behind himself and my heart slams down to the region of my shoes. If Margaret is right, and Leo is retreating back into drinking again, then eventually I'm going to have to tell someone.  
  
"Congratulations, Josh!" I smile.  
  
"Thanks. Um, don't you have a job to do?"  
  
"Yeah." I scamper out of the office, feeling relieved for the first time in weeks. We still have a long way to go, but this is a start. 


	4. A Different Point of View

DISCLAIMER: That, and rating, in part one of IF THE STARS STILL SILENTLY BLESS YOU. Not mine.  
  
SUMMARY: It's Big Block of Cheese Day Again. We're slowly entering AU territory here, but you can place this after, I dunno, Seperation of Powers, just to be on the safe side.  
  
A/N: This is somewhat AU, because I wrote this and couldn't bear to hand Will off to the vice-president. So he still works for Bartlet in my happy little world.  
  
A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW  
  
Toby storms into my office just as I'm putting the finishing touches on a memo about the tax negotiations.  
  
"Guess what. Leo signed up for us to do Block of Cheese Day right before we leave for the long weekend, and are you finished yet?" He slams a pile of folders on my desk.  
  
"Oh, Sam told me about Block of Cheese Day. I've always wanted to do one of those." I smile and pick up the top folder and flip it open, the table of contents entitled "The Tax Debacle And How To Rescue Ourselves." Someone, somewhere, in the Communications Department has a sense of humor. "And, yeah, I just finished."  
  
My good mood does nothing to improve my boss's bad one. "Well, wait until tomorrow. You won't be so excited then."  
  
Over the past year, I've learned to pretty much ignore Toby when he's like this. Well, when isn't he like this? "Okay," I say simply.  
  
****  
  
The expression on my colleagues' faces is not quite what I'd expected when I walk into the Roosevelt Room. CJ and Donna are muttering amongst themselves, and Josh is sitting at the table, pouting. Margaret is whispering to Nancy, and Toby is scowling. I take a seat next to Josh and whisper, "So, what is it we do now?" Angela looks as if she's confused, too.  
  
"Wait for Leo to come in and officially announce Total Crackpot Day," Josh sighs.  
  
"Total what?" I ask.  
  
"Never mind," Donna says, leaning over the table. "We just kind of let Leo do his thing every year."  
  
CJ smiles and looks at me for a minute or so. "Don't worry. The day goes by pretty fast. They confuse you, you sink into a stupor, and then you give them a pen." She frowns. "Of course, sometimes they just freak you out."  
  
And then everyone laughs, as if this is some big joke I'm not privy too.  
  
Angela leans over and whispers, "Talk about a bunch of crackpots."  
  
I feel vaguely insulted, but then I laugh meekly.  
  
I'm saved from having to come up with a witty reply when Leo walks in, looking as if he just woke up. His hair is a mess and his tie is all wrinkled.  
  
"As you may very well know, today is Big Block of Cheese Day," Leo says, drawing himself up importantly and brandishing a large stack of paper in front of us. "It is said that Andrew Jackson had, in his foyer--"  
  
This is followed by some pretty loud and melodramatic groans. Leo puts his hand up, and everyone is silent.  
  
"-- a big block of cheese. This block of cheese was huge, over two tons, and it was there for any and all who might be hungry. It is in the spirit of President Jackson that I set aside this day for you to meet with members of groups who might ordinarily have a hard time getting the attention of the White House."  
  
If the groans from before were loud and melodramatic, that was nothing compared to what they are now.  
  
"Why do we have to do this every year?" Josh asks.  
  
I can tell Leo is pretending to be insulted. "Josh, remember my list?"  
  
"I thought Sam was the sole member of your list."  
  
"Well, now that he's gone, I don't see why we can't make room for more people."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Anyway, I shall now hand out these assignments. And I want you all to note that this has been done with the utmost care and time, so that everyone is matched up perfectly. Margaret and I have spent time over the last few days working this out."  
  
Margaret turns bright red and looks especially interested in the ceiling.  
  
"CJ, you will talk to the UFO guys."  
  
"They're back again?" she asks incredulously.  
  
"Yeah." He hands out a packet of paper and shoves it in her direction.  
  
She looks at it with disdain. "Do they keep that one guy around just to make our lives a living hell?"  
  
Leo ignores her. "Josh, you'll talk to the Garymore Institute of Technology. Very important."  
  
"You know," says Josh, "it sounds important now, but as soon as I start talking to them--"  
  
Leo shoots him a look and then turns his attention to Angela. "You'll talk to the Students Against Book Burning Coalition." He hands a packet of paper over to her, too.  
  
"Never heard of them," Angela says, picking up her packet and raising an eyebrow.  
  
"They were just formed about a month ago. Made up the title themselves."  
  
He turns his attention on Toby. "And since I know you're such a wonderful advocator of the arts--"  
  
Toby glares right back at Leo. He's the only one I know who would dare to do that.  
  
"--you'll be talking to the Committee for Equality in the Arts."  
  
I can see now that Toby looks mildly interested as he takes his packet. As he turns the page, however, his expression falls.  
  
"Will, last but not least," Leo says pleasantly.  
  
I become slightly nervous.  
  
"You'll take the Committee for the Reorganization of the Military."  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes." He hands over my packet, and I look at it for a long time.  
  
"That's it, then," Leo says cheerfully, and Margaret follows behind him, shooting all of us sympathetic looks.  
  
****  
  
Josh comes up behind me. "What do you have?" he asks.  
  
"Someone wants to revisit the idea that soldiers fighting in a war can seek shelter in people's homes."  
  
"I thought the Revolutionary War pretty much took care of that."  
  
"I did, too. And the fact that it's, you know, unconstitutional."  
  
"That, too."  
  
"Who do you have to talk to?"  
  
"Someone wants to spend billions of dollars of taxpayer's money, rebuilding all the major highways in the U.S."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good luck with that." As Josh begins to walk away, I stop him. "CJ mentioned something about... I give them pens?"  
  
"Oh," Josh says, half-laughing. "Sam used to give people pens with the White House seal on them. It's a blow to their pride when we tell them we can't do what they ask. So Sam always tried to make them feel better by giving them free pens."  
  
"Okay."  
  
****  
  
I wander into my office a few minutes later, and there's a group of middle- aged men in t-shirts and jeans.  
  
"Sorry I'm late." I give the obligatory apology and sit down. "So."  
  
"So, we have a couple of points to bring up. First, we believe that soldiers should be able to stay in the homes of American families, like they used to do in England."  
  
"Okay," I say slowly, "but I'm pretty sure that's against the law."  
  
"I was afraid you might say that," the first man said.  
  
"Because it is."  
  
"Well, we'd be asking the White House to support us when we take it to Court."  
  
"Wait a minute. Let me see if I have this right. You're going to contest a law that was all but unconstitutional in 1776 in Court?"  
  
"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up," says another man.  
  
"Why don't you do something useful, like back the White House in a fight against tobacco, or help us fight for the ERA or something like that?" I ask incredulously. I can see now why Josh calls this Total Crackpot Day.  
  
"Mr...?" the first man looks around for a nameplate. I notice with some embarassment my door still says SAMUEL SEABORN in block lettering. "Seaborn," he adds.  
  
"Actually, I'm Will Bailey. I took his place."  
  
"Okay, Mr. Bailey. Look. We believe these soldiers work hard. They deserve the hospitality of other peoples' homes when they're here."  
  
"But that's during peacetime!" I hear myself yelp. "That's unfair. I think Thomas Jefferson called it treacherous."  
  
"We can change that."  
  
"No, we really can't." I'm praying for the earth to open up and swallow me whole, right at this very minute.  
  
I am, however, rescued by a loud knock at my door. Praise God.  
  
"Come in!" I yell, feeling pretty frazzled.  
  
Zoey pokes her head in. "Sorry. I didn't see you were in a meeting. I can come back."  
  
"No!" I stand up in a panic, knocking over my chair in order to keep her from leaving. I repeat more calmy, "We were just, um, finishing," I say, standing and handing out a handful of White House pens. "I'm sorry there's nothing we can do to help you.."  
  
They each take a pen, looking at me uncertainly, and walk out of my office.  
  
"Sorry I interrupted you," Zoey says again.  
  
"No problem. I was actually praying for an interruption."  
  
She smiles at me. "Another one of Leo's Cheese Day meetings?"  
  
"Yeah. Sit down, have a seat." I motion for her to sit down and she does so, giving me an awkward glance.  
  
"Will, you probably saw this on tv, but I had a long talk with Jean-Paul. I forgave him. He's pretty messed up right now, with the Ecstacy. Only a news reporter found me and began asking me questions."  
  
"Now, that's CJ's job, to take care of that."  
  
"Well, no, she already did. She and my father threatened to send the reporter to Timbuktu."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Well, they want me to do a public speech. The media, that is. And I need you to write me a speech."  
  
"Why are you accepting?"  
  
"Because I'm nice like that." She smiles. "Actually, because there's a lot of secrecy. I mean, I did the interview and a quick press conference, but I'm getting letters in the mail and everyone wants to know more of my story."  
  
"I can do that. What do you want me to say?"  
  
"That I forgave Jean-Paul but it wasn't easy. I don't want to sound too perfect. Charlie gave me the heads up that if I told the world that I forgave him on my own that I'd sound sickeningly sweet. I don't want that."  
  
"No."  
  
"And there was a struggle, you know? I had to talk to my father. So I need you to write all that in beautiful prose."  
  
I smile, and she catches my grin. "I'll try."  
  
****  
  
That evening, Leo calls a senior staff meeting in his office. "So, did we learn anything today? I'll ask Will and Angela because they're new."  
  
We both give each other you-should-go-first-(no-really!) glances, and then I take a deep breath and say, "Well, I learned that I can scare people away with White House pens."  
  
Angela nods. "I guess Harry Potter is a really good series. I'll start on the first one tonight."  
  
Everyone laughs, but I notice Leo is just smiling. Maybe it's a grimace.  
  
"Josh? What about you?"  
  
"They wanted to repave the highways in the US. All of them. If I hadn't cut in at the last minute, I think they would have gone into the merits of repaving the highways in Canada, too."  
  
"Billions of taxpayers' money," Donna yells from the back.  
  
"Just about," Josh agrees.  
  
"And CJ?"  
  
"I tried to be polite," she says, giving us all a guilty look, "but I started to daydream. I was only awakened by someone telling me I had a glazed over look."  
  
We all laugh and then Leo turns to Toby. "Toby?"  
  
"They want us to endorse pupeteering. They say there isn't enough money for good puppets." He rubs his bald spot and then shakes his head. "It was the longest meeting of my life."  
  
"That'll do it, folks," Leo says. "Go home. Take a break. Happy Thanksgiving."  
  
"Oh, speaking of that," says Josh. "You all, and some of your assistants, are invited to my apartment. I'm going to cook a turkey and watch football all day."  
  
Donna smirks. "You're going to cook a turkey?"  
  
"Thanks for volunteering," he says, smirking.  
  
"Cook your own damn turkey," she retorts.  
  
"Anyone interested?" he asks.  
  
I notice Leo is the only one without his hand raised in the room. Everyone begins smiling and chatting in the room, except for Leo and me. I see Leo is very slowly sitting down at his desk and reading some papers.  
  
I sneak out of the room and go to back to my office to get my coat.  
  
****  
  
I arrive at Josh's house at about 11:30 the next day. Toby, Ginger, Bonnie, and Josh are watching football, while CJ is standing over them, complaining in loud tones about the game.  
  
Donna comes in a few seconds later and stands next to CJ, also complaining loudly.  
  
"Did you burn the turkey?" she asks good naturedly, and Josh turns around and scowls at her.  
  
I walk into the kitchen and put my relish tray on the buffet table. It's a very nice apartment for someone who works for the government. There's a bar and a fairly spacious kitchen. I notice a red blinking light on his answering machine.  
  
Just as I'm on my way back from the kitchen, Margaret confronts me. "Will, have you seen Leo?"  
  
"No, I haven't. Is he supposed to come?"  
  
"Yeah, why wouldn't he?"  
  
"Because yesterday at the end of the staff meeting he seemed pretty depressed."  
  
"Oh, my God. I'll be right back."  
  
She spins right past me and I watch her as she strides over to Josh and whispers something in his ear.  
  
By his facial expression, I can tell something is wrong. We might have a problem here. 


	5. That Which Once Brought Tears

DISCLAIMER: All in part one of If The Stars Still Silently Bless You.  
  
A/N: See bottom* May be tough for some readers. Feel free to use your back button now.  
  
THANKS: To Elizabeth, for your wonderful beta-ing skills, and I forgot to thank you the last time, so thanks again. Also, thanks to Laura, who won't read this but who told me everything I need to know because of her term paper last year. :)  
  
THAT WHICH ONCE BROUGHT TEARS  
  
I'm vaguely aware of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day parade in the background as I pour vodka into a small shot glass.  
  
I hold the glass in my hand, trembling. I remember when I used to do this back in college. We'd smuggle alcohol into my friend's room and laugh as we recounted how we'd gotten past the RAs and the administration. Jake would pour the drink into paper cups. We'd toast to something, maybe an A on a paper, or to a new girlfriend, or a new boyfriend, and we'd all drink in unison.  
  
It'd burn going down my throat. Everyone's eyes would be all squinched shut in pain. And then our eyes would open, and we'd all catch our breaths and wait until we were ready for the next shot.  
  
I liked alcohol a lot, even then. Even though I hated it when I drank it, I loved it for how it made me feel, and I couldn't stop. And it would be an uphill battle.  
  
Now, I'm sitting on the floor of my house, contemplating. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable. The glass feels so good in my hand, like old times. It feels both soothing and dangerous at the same time, both revolting and tempting.  
  
I lift it to my lips and, just as I'm ready to toss it back in my mouth--  
  
We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.  
  
God, I think viciously, watching the Macey's parade carry on in the background. If God were here, I'd have my family this Thanksgiving. The tax bill would pass. If there was a true higher power, He'd protect Jed Bartlet.  
  
Bile rises in my throat, and it takes me a minute to swallow. I raise the glass in an imaginary toast, a sarcastic toast to this God I'm supposed to recognize in all my meetings, and drink.  
  
As before, I squinch my eyes shut and put a hand over my chest. It's almost instinctive. I watch Garfield float above the street on tv, and put the glass down, waiting.  
  
We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.  
  
A few minutes later, I pour myself another glass. I need to stop. I need to stop. But I don't know how to. I feel a new sensation-- maybe guilt?-- rise up inside of me, and I toss another shot back into my mouth. The announcer's voice becomes louder, and maybe I'm imagining things, but he seems angry. As if I've let him down, too.  
  
I feel strangely drawn to the vodka again, knowing it's a horrible idea, and drink again.  
  
We made a fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves.  
  
This time it's softer in my mouth. Easier to get down. The volume of the tv seems louder, even though I haven't touched the volume control. The female announcer seems louder and angrier, too. God, oh God, oh God, I've made a mistake.  
  
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.  
  
I have to call Jed. I have to ask him to help me. But what if he's so disgusted with my behavior he refuses to talk to me? What will Abbey say? Jed saved me from myself the last time. I let him down. And for that, I let myself have another drink. I have to call Noah's son. What's his name? God. I work with him everyday. John. Jack. Josh. Right. Josh.  
  
We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of our character.  
  
God, I've betrayed You. Jenny, I know you don't love me anymore, but I've betrayed you, too. Mallory, oh, God, Mallory, you'll never look at me the same way. I can just imagine her sad eyes as she'll look at me. It's enough to put another shot in my glass. It seems as though someone else is pouring the glass for me, like I'm detached from myself.  
  
We humbly asked Him to remove all our shortcomings.  
  
God, please let me never do this again. Let me stop. Let them still love me...  
  
We made a list of all the persons we've harmed, and were willing to make amends to them all.  
  
And that's when I realize I'm losing conciousness.  
  
****  
  
I feel a loud slap on my face and wake up. In front of me is a very blurry Noah Lyman.  
  
"Noah?" I mutter. Something isn't right. "I thought you were dead."  
  
"I'm Josh," says Noah firmly. "I work for you, remember?"  
  
Right. Noah's son. "Josh."  
  
"Yeah. You're pretty lucky Margaret has a key to your apartment. She was frantic. She kinda guessed."  
  
He walks over to my window, and a bright light flashes in my direction. My head hurts.  
  
"You pulled the shade," he states firmly as I attempt to sit up. "You've had a pretty rough day."  
  
I look around me, at shot glasses, and a nearly empty vodka bottle. Shit.  
  
"Leo, what the hell happened?"  
  
He steps over my legs and wanders into the kitchen.  
  
"I don't know. I was feeling pretty lonely this holiday."  
  
"You could have asked to stay with me. The whole staff came by. We watched football, and CJ and Donna complained the whole time about how boring the game is. You, at least, would have been more exciting than they were." He emerges with a large glass of water and gives it to me. "Drink."  
  
I drink it gratefully. "I couldn't intrude on you like that."  
  
"Don't you normally stay with the Bartlets, and, you know, let the President tell you the history of whatever strikes his fancy? In Latin?"  
  
"Abbey didn't want me to come," I say, staring at the glass of water and feeling tears slide out of my eyes. I don't want Josh to look at me as being weak. I busy myself with drinking water as Josh walks over to the tv. Sports Night or some other sport news show is on, and he watches the commentary for a second before shutting it off.  
  
"Something's wrong," he decides as he comes over and sits down next to me. "You and Abbey aren't getting along well. What's the matter?"  
  
"Abbey, she--" I stop and use this moment to take another sip of water, vaguely realizing that I wouldn't even consider answering this question if I were sober. "She blamed me for Zoey's kidnapping. She blamed me for taking Shareef's plane down."  
  
Josh pauses for a second and looks angry. "She was wrong."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
And then he turns to me, fully looking me in the eye for the first time since last night. "No, I don't think you really believe that, Leo."  
  
I put the glass down and rub my face for a second. I'm momentarily speechless. And then the tears come. I hug Josh, realizing I must look like a wreck. I'm not like this. I'm supposed to be their leader. I'm supposed to be the liason between them and the President, and here I am, sobbing into the jacket of Noah's son. "I'd never intentially cause harm to Zoey, Josh. I love her like I love my own daughter. She's smart, she's funny, and it's been an honor watching her grow up. Josh, I-- I-- would take it back in a minute."  
  
Josh begins to whisper, "I know. I know. I'm sorry."  
  
We made direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.  
  
I pull back. "I'm sorry, Josh."  
  
He stands, picks up the almost-finished vodka bottle, and venturs into the kitchen. A few seconds later I can hear the trickle of the drink splash into the sink. Then I can hear a clattle as he throws the bottle into the trash can.  
  
Josh comes back into the room, and I can see a combination of concern and fury on his face. "You should have called me or Margaret when you were considering drinking. You know any one of us would have helped you."  
  
I stand up, feeling like a man for the first time all day. I notice the sun is setting, and I make a move to hug Josh again. He stares at me for awhile, and then walks right into the hug. We embrace like brothers.  
  
We continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.  
  
"I was wrong, Josh," I say, finally pulling back again and sighing. This is hard for me to say. "Help me. I need you to help me get back on track. I mean, AA will do some of that for me. You know, I like to have someone, besides my sponsor,to tell when I screw up. Jed Bartlet was who I picked, but with Abbey on the warpath, I can't turn to him. Abbey won't let me, and I don't want to be the person who screws my best friend's marriage up. Will you be the person I tell?"  
  
Josh looks at me, and I can see some shock in his eyes. And then it subsides to something that looks like pride. "Sure, Leo," he whispers.  
  
"I don't deserve friends like you," I respond, finally feeling better, and not just because my head feels clearer.  
  
"Oh, Leo, don't make me go into the man in the hole story," he says, eyes twinkling. He's still not smiling, but I can tell he's close.  
  
"I won't."  
  
"Hey, would you like to hang out at my apartment? I have a lot of left- overs. There's still, you know, a lot of turkey in my fridge. It's mostly not burnt."  
  
I smile for the first time in a long time. God, this feels good. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude..."  
  
"Stop being such a curmudgeon." Josh says, going over the the coatrack and holding up my jacket.  
  
I take it from him and put it on. "Oh, I'll never stop being one of those. But I'll come over to your house, I guess."  
  
"Happy Thanksgiving, Leo," Josh says as we walk out to his car.  
  
"Yeah, I have plenty of things to be thankful for."  
  
We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.  
  
A/N: The title of this story came from a particularly beautiful part of the Alcoholics Anonymous website that said the goal of meetings is to get the members to laugh at things that used to make them cry.  
  
Also: It's important to note that alcoholism is not a moral issue, but a psychological or mental issue. Recovered alcoholics are expected to relapse at least three times throughout their lives.  
  
Check out for more information.  
  
Happy Thanksgiving. 


	6. If The Stars Still Silently Bless You

  
  
  
  


IF THE STARS STILL SILENTLY BLESS YOU  


  
  
In and out. In and out. I focus on the steady rhythm of my cigar smoke. Breathe in, breathe out, Sip of Scotch. If I focus on that, everything seems okay.   
  
There's a bar only a few blocks away from the White House. I go there sometimes after a long day of work. It's been a long month at work, actually. It's someplace that helps me unwind.   
  
Leo's sick. He has this disease. It's not like alcoholism has never been a problem for us, but I think there are times when we forget he's sick. Mallory visited the White House today. There are very few reasons for her to come now that Sam's gone, but she's worried for her father. She offered to take him out for coffee and dessert after work today.   
  
There was really no one to ask me if I wanted coffee and dessert and to hug me and tell me everything's going to be okay. I'm on my own a lot of times.   
  
As if to break me out of my reverie, a tall woman wearing red sits down next to me. How did I know I'd find you here? comes CJ's voice. She sounds amused.   
  
Thanks for finding me, Sherlock.   
  
She snorts and gets the bartender's attention. I've been drinking a lot lately, she informs me. God, I wonder what it's like to drink and not know how or when to stop. She orders a drink and turns her attention to me.   
  
We both fall silent after her last comment. I think about what it must be like to be Leo. Sam once told me he'd run into the fire for Leo at any cost. Josh and CJ have both expressed similar sentiments. The need to protect Leo is something we've all understood, without speaking about it too much. We've all said things to that effect in passing, but it's been sort of ingrained in our minds.   
  
I just don't think Leo understands that.   
  
When CJ gets her drink she says, It's only a matter of time before the press gets a hold of this, you realize. I'm trying to figure out whether it's best to come clean right away, or if we should wait until someone asks us. She takes another sip and holds onto her glass tightly. Her knuckles have become white. Toby, we are exactly where we were four years ago.   
  
I've known CJ for many years, but I don't think I've ever heard so much anger and frustration in her voice. It frightens me.   
  
  
  
At least we're no longer unwittingly lying about MS, she adds, and her voice cools down for the moment.   
  
Yeah, the press knows about it this time.   
  
We're unraveling at the seams, Toby.   
  
Yes, we are. I wish I could tell her otherwise, but it's true. The President is on borrowed time. We're just waiting for him to be deemed incapable of running the country, and his chief of staff is starting all over at trying to become sober. Leo's sponsor used to be Hoynes, until he left, and now Leo is going through a minor depression.   
  
I want to quit so bad, she whispers. And then she stands up. Well, the tree lighting ceremony is tonight. Would you like to escort me?   
  
You want me to go to the tree lighting ceremony, where I expect there will be people dressed up as Santa Claus, singers who can't sing, and an overly perky First Lady?   
  
Okay, Mr. Scrooge, you don't have to go.   
  
I never said I didn't want to go. I drain the last bit from my drink and stant to my feet. I think it should we well noted that I'm doing this under sufferance.   
  
This, my friend, could be our last Christmas in the White House. CJ holds out her arm and I take it.   
  
I say as we walk outside into the night.   
  
****  
  
No parking, I say, exasperated, as we come up to the outside center where the ceremony is being held. You have to walk most of the way. The rest of the staff is already there, standing in the cold. Josh is bouncing on his feet to keep warm, and Donna is blowing into her mittens.   
  
And he's back to being his normal self, CJ says. He was almost cheerful back at the bar. That is to say, he wasn't complaining,   
  
Donna gives us a half smile.  
  
What is that caterwauling in the background? I ask.   
  
Oh, that's Britney Spears, Donna says cheerfully.   
  
She is ruining O Holy Night. O Holy Night is about Christ's birth, shepards seeking redemption for their sins, the salvation of mankind, and peace on earth. This, this is an abomination to shepards and mankind everywhere! I yell.   
  
I thought you were Jewish. What the hell do you care about Christ's birth? CJ asked, looking far too amused for my liking. Besides, it's _hu_mankind, she says, accenting the first syllable.   
  
You're missing the point entirely.   
  
  
  
We turn our attention back to the stage. Now a group of young men are dancing around on the stage singing Feliz Navidad. Girls towards the front are cheering.   
  
CJ, make it stop.   
  
Toby, I had nothing to do with the opening acts. It was all CBS. They're airing it tonight.   
  
Yeah, but Will and I just wrote a long speech about Christmas time. The President is going to stand in front of that tree and welcome Christmas, and Congressmen and future presidents are going to shake my hand. Why? Because it'll be a good speech. This? This music is ruining Christmas!   
  
Donna turns around and rolls her eyes. Toby, it'll all be over soon.   
  
Suddenly, Zoey comes up, bouncing up and down and grinning from ear to ear. Like the musical line-up much, Toby?   
  
Everyone laughs, but I just scowl at her. She laughs with them and talks to Josh and Donna for awhile.   
  
She's radiant tonight, which is a far cry from how she was months ago. Just as we became used to the pale, frightened, traumatized young woman, she rebounded. It took her quite a few sessions with the psychologist and the combined efforts of her mother and father to make her happy again. I think Zoey will never be completely healed, but this is a start.   
  
A baritone takes the center stage and sings a song in Latin, then immediately begins singing In Excelsis Deo.   
  
You can't complain now, Toby, CJ says.   
  
You wanna take a bet on that? I retort.   
  
She laughs just as the baritone gets off the stage and the announcer gets on. And with that, I'm pleased to announce the President of the United States!   
  
There's rapturous applause, and Bartlet climbs up the stairs and waves. He's smiling, but he looks out of breath.  
  
Dad doesn't look so good, comes another voice from behind us. It's Elizabeth, with Annie and Greg behind her.  
  
Zoey looks concerned. Is Mom there?   
  
I don't know, she responds.   
  
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, Bartlet begins. I know you kids are eager to see the magic of Christmas come alive, but you'll have to excuse the blabbering of an old man before we can proceed.   
  
There's laughter, and I can tell the crowd is warming up towards him.   
  
No matter what your religious affiliation may be... he pauses and takes a deep breath. I'm not sure from this distance, but I think he closes his eyes for a moment.   
  
Good God, says Elizabeth. Annie, can you give me the cell phone? I'm going to call your grandmother.   
  
No matter what your religious affiliation may be, Bartlet continues, Christmas is a time for family and looking towards peace on earth... He closes his eyes again, and hunches over. For a second.   
  
CJ says, he's not going to make it. I'm going to run back to the office. The press will be asking me questions. She pushes herself through the crowd, and I watch helplessly as the President clings to the microphone. There's murmuring throughout the crowd.   
  
...a time of sharing, a time of joy, and a time where we come together as the human race to... and he falls to the floor of the stage, much to the surprise of the crowd. The front row screams with shock, and Josh looks back at me with a pale expression.   
  
We're going back to the office, he says. Elizabeth, have you gotten hold of your mother?   
  
She nods and puts the cellphone back up to her ear. I'm going to keep this with me until I find her, with this crowd.   
  
A Secret Service woman quietly says to her, Call your mom. We're going to take you to a safe place. It's just a precaution. Tell your mom to meet us there.   
  
Elizabeth gets back on the phone, and a small group of us hurry back to the White House.   
  
****  
  
We regroup in Leo's office.   
  
What should I tell the press? CJ asks.   
  
There's a long pause, and she looks slightly embarrassed that the first words out of her mouth are about the press.   
  
Tell them the President passed out, Leo says firmly. Tell them the Secret Service are investigating but they're pretty sure it's related to the MS. He looks pale and tired, but resiliant at the same time.   
  
Have you gotten a hold of Abbey? I ask. We've got to keep updated on the President's condition.   
  
Leo says. She'll tell us when there's a new development. Toby, Will, we need you to write an official press statement. I'm assuming as the night wears on the press will want to hear from Abbey or another member of the family.   
  
The path from Leo's office to mine is hectic. Many of the staffers came back after hearing about the President, if for no other reason than that they're curious about the recent developments. Bonnie and Ginger stand by my office, waiting.   
  
Oh, my God, says Ginger. Toby, I was-- I took my nephew and it was--horrible, she says.   
  
I stand there awkwardly. I never know what to do when people become emotional. For some odd reason I've always been able to understand CJ, but usually I'm at a loss. So I do the first thing that comes to mind. I do what I did with the shooting, and after Zoey returned safely: I hug Bonnie and Ginger in turn.   
  
Then I sneak into my office and turn on CNN. ...about fifteen minutes ago, when President Bartlet passed out, giving the traditional Christmas speech. White House Correspondent Daniel Meadows reports.  
  
The camera pans over Daniel Meadows, who's standing outside on the front lawn. Thank you, Marissa. We don't know too much about what just happened. No gunfire was shot off before the president collapsed, so witnesses are telling us they believe he fell over from some internal nature. The Secret Service is investigating to make sure there's no terrorism threat. They assure us it's standard procedure. President Bartlet is being taken to George Washington Memorial Hospital. We're expecting a statement from the White House in the next few minutes.   
  
I turn off the television and walk down the hall. Will is standing there in his office, looking crestfallen, and staring at the television.   
  
Will, we need a brief statement. Get in contact with the hospital and see what the President's condition is. I'm going to go talk to Leo for a moment and see what's going on.   
  
This seems to break Will out of his reverie, and he turns from the television and nods. he whispers.   
  
I hurry down the hall, and Josh is already in Leo's office. Has Abbey called yet? I ask.   
  
Leo says. Did you get started on a statement?   
  
Yeah. I just told Will to call the hospital.   
  
Suddenly, the phone rings. Josh, Leo, and I jump. We wait expectantly as Leo answers the phone. Yeah. Okay. Okay... we'll be there. Thanks.   
  
He hangs up the phone and says, That was Abbey. For the moment, the President is unconscious. She wants us to come down to the hospital. Be sure Will knows that, Toby.   
  
I hurry back to my office, and Will is holding the phone with one hand and typing with the other, trying to get someone at the hospital to tell him what's going on. By his face I can tell it's not going well.   
  
The President is unconscious.   
  
He looks up and nods slowly.   
  
This is going to be a long night.  
  
****  
  
After CJ gave the briefing, we went down to the hospital. I've learned to hate these walls. We've been here because of shootings, test results, and now because the President is sick.   
  
If I never have to see this hospital again, it'll be too soon.   
  
I sit down, and I realize how tired I am. My legs ache and my head is throbbing. I put my head back against the wall and take a deep breath. The walls are decorated with lights, and fake trees are leaning against the wall, decorated. _Hark, The Herald Angels Sing_ is playing on the overhead.   
  
CJ sits down next to me, and holds my hand. She looks pale and worn. CNN is playing on the television, and she watches a repeat of her press conference. You know, I've never quite gotten used to the picture of me on the screen, she says suddenly.   
  
Well, you look great.   
  
  
  
I had some intuition when I asked you along on the campaign.   
  
She laughs. Sadly. Bitterly. But it's still a laugh. Remember when you came and I fell into the pool?   
  
How could I forget?   
  
And we went inside and I made pancakes while you told me about Jed Bartlet?   
  
Lopsided pancakes.   
  
Hey, don't make fun of my pancake-making skills.   
  
Wouldn't dream of it, I say, amused. Remember that one night on the campaign bus when you puked?   
  
Okay, why are we making fun of me?   
  
Because it's so much fun.   
  
You take enjoyment out of my pain.   
  
  
  
Remember when we won? she says quietly. It's clear in my memory. Josh walked up to Bartlet and said, CNN, NBC, and countless other networks are declaring you the winner.' And remember Bartlet's face when we all started calling him Mr. President?   
  
I do.   
  
And remember Cheese Day? God, we've done so much together. We've seen assassination attempts, Sam losing faith, Sam leaving. Toby, why did Sam lose faith in us?   
  
How do you answer that? He was still idealistic. He didn't want to acknowledge that humans have the power to-- What's the word? Destroy? Betray? --fail to live up to standards, I finish lamely.   
  
I can see the meaning's not lost on her. I wonder briefly if she knows the appropriate word for it, and she nods. I want to quit, she says for the scond time this evening.   
  
No, you don't. I've got to tell you something my mother once told me.   
  
This is dragging up some unwanted memories, and I take a deep breath, thinking CJ is ready to hear this. When I was four years old, my cousin, his name was Stephen, died in a car crash. He was a lot older than I was. Twelve years' difference.   
  
He was like a big brother to me. Took me everywhere I wanted to go. So when he died, I was devestated. Frightened.   
  
CJ stares me right in the face. She's pale, sad.   
  
My mother knew I wasn't old enough to understand about God's wisdom and what happens to us when we die. So she used the stars as a metaphor, because David liked to stargaze. She said, Look to the stars, Toby. They silently bless us. Through the hard times, remember that the stars have awesome power.'   
  
Interesting metaphor, says CJ, eyes filling with tears. Do you think the stars still silently bless you?   
  
Well, now I understand about God, but there's a part of me that likes to look at the stars and believe that they bless us.   
  
She's crying now, humble, breathless, broken. I know she wants to leave it all, but she's too loyal. She doesn't want to watch Bartlet fade away firsthand, but I know there's a part of her that realizes that watching it secondhand would be much, much worse. CJ turns and smiles at me, tears still streaming down her face. If the stars still bless you, you've got it good, she decides.   
  
Then a nurse comes in, looking tired. We, uh, just wanted to let you know, the President is awake and is expected to mostly recover.   
  
We both stand, and I squeeze CJ's hand.   
  
I think you may be right, she says as we head into the President's hospital room.   
  
****  
  
Bartlet is on medication. He looks at CJ and me. We've been hanging out all night, and the nurses have been giving us knowing glances. When we explain this to him, he says seriously, I'll bet the nurses think you two are married. You're not married, are you?   
  
Not the last time we checked, sir, says CJ as the President leans back against the pillow, satisfied with her answer. How are you feeling?   
  
he says. Where's everyone else?   
  
They're coming, sir.   
  
As if on cue, Josh, Donna, Leo, Abbey, Charlie, and Will crowd into the room.  
  
Okay, so who the hell is running the country right now?   
  
The Vice President's got the reigns for the moment, Josh says. Which means you should try to get better as soon as humanly possible.   
  
I'll do my best for you there, Skippy, Bartlet says, laughing at his own joke.   
  
The nurse pokes her head in the room. My, a little party. I just came in here to say the President should be out in a few days, so there's not much you can do here. She comes in fully. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, sir?   
  
You could send me home, he says, hopefully. Any chance of that?   
  
I'm sorry, sir, no.   
  
She seems to be trying to decide whether the President's joking or not.   
  
Well, shoot.   
  
She smiles and puts some pills on the tray in front of him. Just press this button if you need anything. She points to a little red button on the side of the tray. Good night, sir.   
  
When she leaves, I ask, Is there anything we can do for you, sir?   
  
Leave me alone. With my wife.   
  
We all mumble various versions of Yes, sir, and leave.   
  
Maybe the stars have more power than I used to think. 


	7. Recovery

  
  
  
I could jump you.   
  
No, you couldn't. You're stuck in the hospital bed, and you're weak.   
  
I could try.   
  
That would be a bad idea. I look up from a biography of Jackie Kennedy I'm reading.   
  
You're so sexy over there.   
  
Shut up, Jed. You rest there for awhile. My husband is aggravating, but he's so cute stuck there with pain medication in his system.   
  
When do I get to go home?   
  
When I say so.   
  
You don't have power over when I go home.  
  
No, but I like to pretend I do.  
  
  
  
Honestly, Jed. Go to sleep before I kill you.   
  
Just then, Leo knocks on the door. Who's killing whom?   
  
She is, Jed grumbles as he finally leans back against the pillow. He closes his eyes, but only for a moment.   
  
I don't know what's wong with me. I used to love Leo like a brother, but somehow some part of me began to blame Leo for Zoey's kidnapping, and I can't convince myself that it's not his fault. I stiffen as Leo crosses over to Jed's bed.   
  
How are you doing, sir?   
  
Abbey's going to kill me because I won't shut up, and also because I didn't tell her I had some flu symptoms. I had a cough, a runny nose, and every so often, I had a bit of a headache.   
  
Why didn't you mention that to anyone?   
  
I didn't know I had the flu.   
  
You had a cough, a runny nose, and a headache and nothing tipped you off that you might have the flu?   
  
Yeah, well, I wanted to flick the switch for the tree lighting ceremony.  
  
Your logic never fails to amaze me, sir.   
  
What's going on back at the White House?   
  
I don't think you're ready to hear this.   
  
Of course I am, Leo. Am I not the commander-in-chief of the most powerful army in the world?   
  
I listen to them banter for a little bit longer while pretending to be interested in my Jackie Kennedy biography.   
  
Jed turns to me suddenly. You okay, honey?   
  
Yeah, I'm just reading my book.   
  
No, you're not.   
  
How the hell do you know?   
  
You haven't turned any of those pages for minutes.   
  
The writer is loquacious, Jed.   
  
You're not concentrating.   
  
You realize I can take him, right? I say to Leo.   
  
Yes, you can, he says, giving me a nervous smile.   
  
Jed seems to notice that something's not okay. I'm going to take a nap. Do you two want to talk about something with each other? he asks, giving me a pointed look.   
  
You didn't seem tired before.   
  
I am now, Abigail. To complete his performance, he even fakes a yawn.   
  
You think you're so cute, Mr. President, I say, standing up and crossing over to peck him on the forehead.   
  
I am cute.   
  
You're doped up on drugs.   
  
That too. This time he emits a genuine yawn, and closes his eyes for a moment.  
  
Are you sure you want to take a nap?   
  
  
  
  
  
Leo says good-bye and we walk outside and roam the hospital hallways.   
  
So, Leo, I just want to say--   
  
I'm so sorry, he says, overlapping my sentence.   
  
I nod and swallow. This will be a difficult conversation. How's everything going with AA?   
  
Better. Mallory has been watching over me like a mother hen, which is doing wonders. Even Jenny has called to make sure I'm okay. Mallory alerted her to the fact I haven't been doing well.   
  
I'm glad you have such support.   
  
I am, too. And I wanted to say, I relapsed because there are certain things that--  
  
I made a mistake, Leo. I shouldn't have blamed you for the kidnapping.  
  
We stop in front of the hospital cafeteria. You've made many mistakes, Abbey. I wince at that, but he doesn't stop. He continues ripping my heart out. But I'm not sure how many of them are your fault and how many of them are situational.   
  
You've made mistakes, too. I'd say not telling the international community about Shareef was one, to begin with.   
  
We continue walking, aimlessly. Yeah, and I wish it was different.   
  
So do I. There are a lot of things I wish.   
  
Abbey, in AA we learn that some things are not our fault. Some things are, and we acknowledge them and make amends. But other mistakes just happen because of the way life is. And those we put behind us.  
  
I'm sorry for blaming you, I whisper. There's something releasing, something almost redeeming about coming to terms with this. We stop in front of a large room.   
  
And I'm sorry about Shareef. I'm sorry I didn't come to you earlier.   
  
I'm sorry about the way I've treated you.   
  
  
  
We hug for a long time, and then I step back. Friends, still?   
  
I think I can handle that, Leo says, a smile twisting at the corner of his mouth. He walks away and I stand for a minute in that spot. Fittingly, I realize, we've been standing in front of the hospital chapel.   
  
****  
After praying in the chapel for a long time, I get up from the uncomfortable pews and head to the cafeteria. Looking after Jed and praying has made me both tired and hungry, and I think if I get a bite to eat I'll feel better.   
  
I order something to eat, trying to ignore the looks of surprise as I order food like an average person, and dig into my soup and coffee as soon as I find a booth.   
  
The tv is turned to CNN, and just as I look up at the tv (it's become a habit of mine to watch CNN whenever it's on) the news about Jed changes to BREAKING NEWS.   
  
We've just been informed that five minutes ago the U.S. Embassy in Saudia Arabia has been bombed. There have been no formal statements saying whether anyone has been hurt. We haven't heard from the embassador yet, but apparently he was at work this evening. We'll keep you posted throughout the night.   
  
The camera pans to screaming people in the street, ashes, rubble, and everything else frightening you can think of. I stand up and throw away the rest of my food, having lost whatever was left of my appetite.   
  
I walk back upstairs to Jed's room, and Ellie is sitting by his bed.   
  
Look who woke me up, Jed says, with a twinkle in his eye.   
  
Dad wasn't asleep, Ellie says, smiling.  
  
Thanks for ratting on me.   
  
No problem.   
  
I fight a wave of nausea. I don't know why the bombing has affected me so much. After all, it was on another country. Far away from us.  
  
And then it hits me. Jed knows the ambassador to Saudia Arabia, because he knows all the current ambassadors. Because he can recite everyone's name and where they work, and all the dangerous sites.   
  
Because it could have been him.   
  
Abigail, you don't look so good, he says, squinting at me. What's the matter?   
  
The Saudia Arabian Embassy has been bombed, I say dully.   
  
Were there people there?   
  
I nod slowly. They haven't heard from the ambassador. They're waiting to find out if he's okay.   
  
Samir Hulman?   
  
  
  
****  
  
Jedidiah, you stubborn old mule, use your cane.   
  
Canes are for sissies.   
  
Use the damn cane.   
  
Abigail, I don't need it.   
  
  
  
I stand back, knowing in a few moments I'll be able to prove him wrong.   
  
It's a day later, and my husband is doing fine. Either that, or the nurse got so sick of him she gave him a cane and told him to do whatever the hell he wanted.   
  
I think it might be a little bit of both.   
  
He glares at me as he swings his legs over the bed and stands. He's really wobbly, but manages to take a few steps before his hand reaches out and finds the wall to lean on.  
  
What do you think now, Mr. Alberto Salazar?   
  
Give me the cane, he says, snatching it out of my hand.   
  
Now, walk around a few steps and see how you feel.   
  
I still don't think I need it.   
  
You lost some of your muscle strength in your legs, Jed.   
  
You make it sound like I just had a stroke.   
  
No, you just had an MS attack. Now be a good boy and use the cane.   
  
He walks around the hospital room and glares at me. Now are you happy?   
  
I'll be happy when you get back to work and you're Leo's problem.   
  
You love me, he says as we walk out into the hallway and out to the limo. Why we ride a limo from the hospital to the White House is beyond me.   
  
That I do.   
  
As we slide into the limo, I lean over and kiss him.   
  
My aunt always used to tell me that you lose some of the initial love you have for a man. That after awhile, their kisses don't make your heart flutter in the way it used to, that you have sex because it's what you do with your husband.   
  
Either she didn't know what she was talking about or Josiah Bartlet is the most charming man I know, because my heart still flutters and I love him the same way I did thirty-four years ago.   
  
Mr. President, when you go back to being the most powerful man on earth, what are you going to do next?   
  
Oh, I don't know. Will you make the bed soft and fluffy for us tonight?   
  
I'll do whatever you want me to. Eagle's going to be one very lucky man tonight.   
  
he says, and kisses me again.   
  
****  
Later that night, Jed holds me to him. I can smell the remnants of his cologne on his neck, and I breathe it in, savoring the soft, elegant smell.   
  
I am content.   
  
Suddenly, I hear an audible sigh coming from the man I love and sit up. Are you all right, darling?   
  
He doesn't sound okay at all.   
  
I begin, rubbing his bare chest and staring in his sad eyes.   
  
He blinks slowly and sighs again.   
  
Did work get to you?  
  
No, Abbey, work never gets to me, because I don't have a depressing job at _all_, he snaps. Jed sits up, too. Josh can't get the tax reform bill passed because most of the country, and almost all of Congress, thinks I'm too weak to run the country, much less lay down the law and let them know the bill is something worth passing. He's said this all very fast.   
  
And I just found out the bombing in Saudia Arabia has left at least eight people dead and they're waiting for someone to identify all the bodies, but one of those people might have been Samir Hulman, he finishes.   
  
Oh, honey, I say, because that's the only thing I can think of to say. And then, Honey, you're depressed.   
  
How the hell do you know?   
  
I did, in fact, get my medical degree.   
  
You did, did you? he says, half-smiling.  
  
Yes. And a common side effect for people with diseases like Multiple Sclerosis is depression. Jed, you're just depressed. And tired and angry, but that's for another time. Honey, the best thing you can do is sleep. It'll wear off eventually.   
  
He sits back and I watch his clear blue eyes stare up at the ceiling for awhile. You've got a point there, Dr. Bartlet.   
  
I sit back, too, and continue rubbing his stomach. Just close your eyes.   
  
My eyes are closed.   
  
No, they're not.   
  
How the hell do you know?   
  
I've been married to you for thirty-four years, Jed. I know when your eyes are not closed.   
  
There's a long silence, and I lie there awake as Jed's breathing becomes regulated.   
  
It's only when I'm positive he's asleep that I begin to drift off into unconsiousness.   



	8. My Christmas Vacation, by Josh Lyman

AUTHOR'S NOTE: From now on this story will pretty much be AU. I've lost interest in The West Wing since the departure of Aaron Sorkin, and I don't watch new episodes anymore. However, I will finish this story because the last story in this series will probably give me the closure I need to move on. (Don't ask, I'm pretty much neurotic.)  
  
Yeah, and I realize the Christmas story came over a month too late. Let's just forget the fact that I was late to the party and embrace the fact that I showed up at all.  
  
MY CHRISTMAS VACATION, BY JOSHUA LYMAN  
  
My mother is insane.  
  
So, apparently, are CJ, Donna, Will, and Toby.  
  
Donna happened to mention to me that her family is taking a cruise this Christmas, and with these impossible work schedules, she just can't up and go with them, since the cruise takes off the seventeenth and we don't get off until the twenty-third. So she would have to spend Christmas all alone.  
  
And, during the weekly phone conversations I have with my mother, I just happened to mention this to her. So she suggested Donna should come with me to Florida to visit her.  
  
It would have been fine, but Donna told CJ that I had invited her, who told Toby, who told Will. And then CJ spent the rest of the day making fun of me because I apparently looked embarrassed.  
  
Because, you see, I think I may have a thing for Donnatella Moss.  
  
So this is why Donna's going to spend this Christmas season with me. And why my mother is freaking out because we're a Jewish family, and Donna is not, and she wants everything to be perfect for Donna.  
  
Oh, sure, like she'd do that for me.  
  
I tried to convince her she shouldn't go out of her way to buy a Christmas tree or anything, but she ignored me, and apparently there's this minature Christmas tree on her coffee table. With fake snow.  
  
Yes, my mother has gone nuts.  
  
Donna and I are currently driving down to the airport, where we'll take a flight to Florida.  
  
"I'm so excited, Josh," she says, smiling her ecstatic smile and changing the radio station to a station that plays Christmas music from Thanksgiving to Christmas.  
  
"Yeah," I mutter.  
  
"Your mother's so sweet, Joshua, letting me in for the holidays and then buying a Christmas tree for me. What did you say she did?"  
  
"She was a botany professor at an all women's college. Now she reads a lot and helps with Meals On Wheels."  
  
"That's wonderful, Josh!"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You know, some night you're gonna be visited by three ghosts, and you're gonna lament all the wonderful things you missed while being an insufferable grouch."  
  
"And I'll blame you for it."  
  
"I know you will."  
  
We don't talk for a long time while we engage in the Battle of the Radio. Donna wants it on, I want it off. Finally we compromise on NPR. I love NPR. It's sometimes more interesting than reading newspapers, and they don't have commercials, so they can usually broadcast what they want and not worry about big corporations monitoring the airwaves.  
  
",,.no news about the whereabouts of Saudia Arabian Samir Hulman, who apparently disappeared after the bombing that came two weeks ago. Kelly Likeman reports."  
  
"It's hard to believe no one can find Samir Hulman," Donna says. "You think he's dead?"  
  
"More than possible," I say as I pull into the airport parking lot. "Still, almost all the victims' bodies have been identified, and his hasn't been yet. Which is odd, because he's the ambasssador, and you'd think it wouldn't be that hard to do."  
  
"Maybe he was hurt pretty bad. Maybe"-- and she says this with difficulty-- "maybe his body was blown up too badly."  
  
"Possible." I can't describe it, but after the shooting, talking about people dying has been harder for me to do than it used to.  
  
Especially if they die violently.  
  
Donna changes the subject. "Are you guys going to push the tax bill further?"  
  
"Yeah. After the Christmas recess, I'm gonna hit Congress with it."  
  
"Good. We've got to play hardball with them now."  
  
We finally find a parking spot--God, I hate airports, and around Christmastime, especially-- and we grab our bags and head into the airport.  
  
**** We get to Florida in the early evening and drive another thirty minutes to my mother's house.  
  
I use my key to get in, and Mom gets up from her chair and hugs me tightly. "Joshua Noah Lyman! I'm so happy to see you again! And this must be Donna." She turns to her and hugs her, too. "I've heard so much about you, dear. You're every bit as beautiful as Joshua said you were."  
  
Donna turns bright red, and I think I might have turned a color to match. Mom sees our stunned expressions and laughs. "Christmas cookies, anyone? I've got gingerbread men and snowmen, and I've got a batch of reindeers in the oven."  
  
"Mom, we're not going to eat all of this in the next three days," I protest.  
  
"Nonesense," she says happily.  
  
My mother has always loved having company. Moreso since Dad died, of course, but even before he died she's always loved decorating, baking, and chatting with our neighbors.  
  
Donna takes two snowmen and I eagerly dive into some gingerbread cookies.  
  
"You're a great cook, Mrs. Lyman," Donna says as we sit down at the kitchen table.  
  
"Call me Isabella," she says, and Donna nods absently.  
  
"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," she says.  
  
"Wait, you guys have talked before?" I ask, feeling confused.  
  
"Joshua, remember how I take all your messages?" Donna says sweetly. "Well, your mom has called before. We've spoken on the phone."  
  
The women laugh, and I pretend to be especially interested in the gingerbread man I'm eating. Donna has a point there. I remember back that one night when I was pouting on the bench and Mom called. It was a horrible night, to be sure.  
  
"So, tell me all about yourself," Mom says, suddenly more interested in Donna than me. That's fine. I'll just sit here and eat, and, you know, sulk.  
  
"Well, what do you want to know?"  
  
"Your family, your college life. Joshua tells me you dropped out of college to join the Bartlet campaign. That must have taken a lot of courage. Tell me everything."  
  
"Well," she says, "my father is a pastor at one of those conservative churches. My mother is the supportive pastor's wife. My parents were disappointed to find out I wanted to work for a Democrat, but they were supportive of me."  
  
She goes into detail about the University of Wisconsin, tells Mom about Dr. Freeride while Mom tuts and shakes her head, tells her about going to work for the Bartlet campaign, and then Mom asks what it's like working for me.  
  
"He's fine most of the time, but he can be demanding, and, you know, loud."  
  
"And he's stubborn," Mom adds.  
  
"And he's disorganized."  
  
"And he won't eat his vegetables."  
  
"You know I'm sitting right here, right?" I interject, annoyed.  
  
"But I love you," Mom says, patting my hand. "Now, both of you, put away those cookies. You'll spoil your appetites."  
  
****  
  
After a rather large dinner (Mom kept insisting we eat more and more) we retire into the living room, where there's the Christmas tree. Packages are spread across the coffee table, and Donna adds a few presents to the display as well.  
  
The fake snow is actually a white cloth in bunches around the tree. She's done it quite well, considering the fact we've never celebrated Christmas in our household before. Mom has also scattered some gold sparkles around the cloth, and in the center is the tree. She used white lights to decorate the tree, because she hates multi-colored lights. I remember Mom and Dad driving Joanie and me around the neighborhood, and Mom always used to complain about the "tacky" multi-colored ones.  
  
And right smack dab in the middle of the mantlepiece is a menorah with five candles lit. Her living room is a current shrine to two of the major December holidays.  
  
"It's beautiful," Donna breathes as she sits down on the couch. I sit on an armchair, and Mom sits in her normal spot by the window.  
  
"Oh, stop," Mom says, waving her hand.  
  
"It really is, Mom," I add.  
  
"Joshua, you sure know how to please your crazy old mother."  
  
"You're not old, Mom."  
  
"Joshua--"  
  
I think I see Donna roll her eyes at me. But that moment quickly passes as she notices a picture of a man on the mantlepiece behind her. "Pardon me if I ask, but is that your husband?"  
  
Mom nods. "That's Noah. Looks so much like Joshua, doesn't he? I believe that's where he got his dimples."  
  
I blush and stare very hard at a spot on the carpet.  
  
"Noah's father was in Birkenau, you know. He survived it, making him one of very few people who survived the horrors. We're both from Poland," she says proudly. She's very proud of her heritage.  
  
Our heritage.  
  
"I notice you still have a little accent," Donna says.  
  
"Yes, my parents and I moved to America when I was eight years old. My father thought Poland was in danger of being taken over, and sure enough, that year it was taken over by Nazi forces. But my mother made sure I never forgot my Polish, even when I was learning English."  
  
"Wow," Donna says, her eyes wide.  
  
She laughs softly. "And twelve years later I had Joanie. Went back to school after she was a bit older and then I had Joshua. Then I became a botany professor at Harvard University."  
  
Donna looks entranced. "And your husband?"  
  
"Lawyer, of course. He and his mother came to America, while his father stayed behind. He was captured by Nazi soldiers, of course, but that was toward the end of the war. Then his father got out, raised money, and came to America to be with Noah and his mother." She smiles and says, "Who's up for hot chocolate?"  
  
"You're trying to fatten us up, aren't you? Like Hansel and Grettel," I respond.  
  
"You both need it," she says.  
  
"You should be talking."  
  
"Joshua, flattery will get you nowhere. Trust me."  
  
****  
  
Donna retires early, and Mom and I head to the kitchen table to talk for awhile. "How's everything going? I was watching the news when Bartlet passed out."  
  
"He's all right. He's grudgingly using a cane. The nurses aren't sure if he'll ever get all of his strength in his left leg back."  
  
"What a shame," she says, shaking her head. "He's a really good leader."  
  
"Yeah, something you didn't believe your own son about at first," I say. "First you supported Hoynes, and then you voted for the other guy. A Republican, I might add."  
  
"I'm an Independent," she says. "I liked what he said about family values. I also thought he seemed genuine. However, Bartlet was elected, I saw what he was capable of, and I voted him for re-election. I might add, all this was done after the MS scandal."  
  
"I still can't believe you voted Republican."  
  
"I can't either. All the grief you gave me about choosing the wrong man..." Mom smiles and draws imaginary designs on the table with her finger. "I hear you've been working on the tax negotiations."  
  
"They're not going so well. We'll pick it up after the Christmas recess."  
  
"Joshua, don't overexert yourself."  
  
"I'm not overexerting myself. This is actually my job."  
  
"I still worry about you." And then she adds some words in Polish. She does this when she's worried, excited, or trying to see if I'm paying attention.  
  
"Yeah. Right now we're more worried about trying to find Samir Hulman."  
  
"Bizarre, isn't it?" she says, stretching. "Last time I checked the news he was nowhere to be found. I wonder what happened."  
  
My mother is a news junkie. I think she's actually the one who got me interested in current events; Dad was just along for the ride.  
  
"It's late. Tomorrow's Christmas. It's a big day for both of you," she says.  
  
"Mom, Donna and I are actually adults. You used to say that when Joanie and I were little kids."  
  
"Well, you're still a little kid to me," she says, pecking me on the forehead.  
  
"Mom," I say after a long pause in which I try to decide whether I really want to go to bed right now or not, "I think I might have a thing for Donna Moss."  
  
My mother, being the sympathetic mother I know her to be, laughs. No, she giggles. Guffaws. Down right goes into hysterics.  
  
"What's wrong with you?"  
  
She says this sentence in between giggles: "That's... pretty much... how... your father proposed to me," she says, and laughs some more. " 'Isabella Doverstein, I think I might have a thing for you.'" And then she tries (unsuccessfully, I might add) to put on a serious face long enough to give me some motherly advice.  
  
"Mom, what should I do?"  
  
"Tell her how you feel."  
  
"I've already done that. She doesn't pick up on the hints."  
  
"What hints have you dropped?"  
  
"Well, I danced with her once right after we were elected at the Inaugural Ball."  
  
She smirks. "And how many other young men danced with her that night?"  
  
"I think that's entirely beyond the point."  
  
"I think that's exactly the point, but go on."  
  
"And I treat her like an equal. In the office."  
  
"Okay." She looks unconvinced. "Continue."  
  
"And I took her in when she wanted to join the campaign. I hired her. I--"  
  
"Joshua Lyman, not all things are about work."  
  
"Mom, you didn't let me finish. I wrote a rather nice note inside a book about skiing I got for her for Christmas. I bought her flowers to celebrate the anniversary of the day she dumped her old boyfriend to come work for me."  
  
"The note was a start. You sent her flowers as a non-anniversary gift?" my mom says, shaking her head.  
  
"You're so incredibly like her," I inform my mother, and then I continue. "She went home because she was embarrassed about a quote she had been blamed for, and my friends and I threw snowballs at her window so that she'd come back to our recent inauguration party." I purposely leave out the point about telling Donna to call me 'Wild Thing'.  
  
"How unbelievably romantic. Joshua, have I taught you nothing?"  
  
"I wouldn't go that far."  
  
"Good boy. When you love a woman, tell her so. Those are not hints women pick up on."  
  
"If you think I'm going to go to her house and stand there with chocolates and flowers..."  
  
"You know, chocolate and flowers is not a bad thing. You'll understand why when you get her some," she says mischieviously.  
  
"Mom!" I yell.  
  
She hushes me. "Do you want to wake up Donna and let her hear us talking about this?"  
  
"Mom, please don't make me do the flower thing. It's not my style."  
  
"Then find something that is your style, and do it. And don't be too subtle. Women can pick up on hints, but not the ones you've been giving her."  
  
"Okay," I grumble.  
  
"Oh, and Joshua?" I hear as I turn away from my mother. "Not hanging out with other women helps."  
  
Oh, I could die.  
  
****  
  
My conversation with my mother has given me an idea. And I'm eager to put this idea into action.  
  
By Donna's not-so-thrilled face when I run into her room a few hours later, I can tell she's not so eager.  
  
"Joshua, it's 3:15 in the morning." She sits up and blinks at me. "The birds aren't even chirping yet."  
  
"I've been talking to my mother. And I've decided something. I, you know, have a thing for you. A really good sort of thing for you. I mean, I like you a lot. I've liked you for a long time. I want to get you to know in many more ways. Not those kind of ways, not yet, but you can be sure they're along the way, and..."  
  
Donna turns on her lamp and smiles. "C'mere."  
  
I sit down at the edge of her bed.  
  
"You're so cute when you're flustered."  
  
"I am a professional. I don't get flustered."  
  
"Okay," she says, but she looks like she's holding back a grin. "You like me, huh?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Platonic, or..."  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You're confused."  
  
"No, not Platonic."  
  
She blushes and grins from ear to ear. "Would your mother care if we looked stayed up and hung out in the living room?"  
  
"No," I say, stretching out my hand. She takes it and we creep into the living room. Mom must have put up our stockings after we went to bed. As a matter of fact, who knew Mom had stockings?  
  
She is, after all, insane.  
  
"Would she care if we peeked in our stockings?" Donna pokes into a stocking with careful cursive letters marked 'Donna' on the front.  
  
"She'll have to live with it," I say as I poke into my stocking, marked 'Joshua'.  
  
She pulls out a box of chocolates, some perfume, and an elegant glass ornament. It has a swan on it, and it sparkles when she holds it up to the light.  
  
"What did you get, Josh?" She leans over toward me and watches as I pull out my stocking stuffers. Mom gave me a box of chocolates, cologne (which I hate-- when will she learn I hate to wear cologne?) and a tie with a Yellow Submarine theme. I probably won't ever wear it, but it's Mom's tradition to give me funny ties.  
  
"What did you get me for Christmas?" Donna asks. Ever since the tree lighting ceremony, she's been trying to surprise me into telling her what I got for her.  
  
"Donna, we have at least five hours. You'll have to live with the suspense."  
  
"I hate suspense. I always used to read ahead in mystery novels. You know, when I had time to read mystery novels."  
  
"Got those at the gas station, did you?"  
  
"See, now you're making fun of my taste. Let's say for a moment we do get together. If this happens, would you stop making fun of everything I do?"  
  
"Will you stop stealing my fries when we go to restauraunts?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, see? Now I can't promise not make fun of your bad taste."  
  
"It's not bad taste, Joshua. It's acquired."  
  
"You call it potato--"  
  
"Josh--"  
  
"So. Shall we get together?"  
  
See, I had this special dream of getting together with Donna. I would be suave, romantic, and I would (metaphorically, of course) sweep her off her feet.  
  
Instead, it's everything I hoped it wouldn't be. Awkward. Not romantic. I'm positive that if I were to stand right now, I'd trip over my own feet.  
  
Donna sits back in her chair. "I don't know."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
There's a long time, during which Donna and I both get up several times to get something to drink, or to go to the bathroom.  
  
"Oh, hell," Donna says, "let's do it."  
  
It's been silent for such a long time, her voice startles me.  
  
"So."  
  
"So."  
  
I've never been so inarticulate in my life.  
  
To save me from my embarrassment, my beeper goes off. I grunt in frustration and read the message. It's Leo's number.  
  
I call him from my mother's kitchen phone. "Josh, listen, I know it's early in the morning on Christmas Eve, but we found Samir Hulman."  
  
"Alive?"  
  
"Yes, he escaped before the bomb went off, but, Josh, he was participating in criminal behavior. Since the President and Samir were pretty good friends, I think we're going to get hit in the polls pretty bad."  
  
"What was he doing?"  
  
"Turned out to be stealing federal money in Saudia Arabia, Josh. I don't know how no one caught it until now, but he's in prison in his home country. As soon as this holiday is over, I'll need all hands on deck."  
  
"Okay."  
  
I hang up and go into the next room, where Donna is busily examining the contents of her stocking.  
  
When I relay the information to her, she asks me if we need to go back early.  
  
"I'm leaving tonight. You don't have to go to work if you don't want to."  
  
"I might as well, you know."  
  
****  
  
You know that wonderful feeling you get when you're sitting with a person you can just talk with? That's how I'm feeling right now, as the sun rises and my mother comes in from her room.  
  
"I see we have some early risers," she says, smiling. "And that you've already gotten into your stockings."  
  
Donna gives her a sheepish look and rises to make some tea while I explain the situation to my mother.  
  
"Oh, Joshua, do you have to leave so soon?" she sighs. "You're never home, and the few times that you are, you always have to leave before I want you to."  
  
"It's my job, Mom. And we're about to face a PR problem the likes of which we haven't seen since the President first declared he had MS."  
  
She looks at me doubtfully but then squeezes my hand. "I love you. Good luck."  
  
**** After a warm and comfortable Christmas Eve lunch, I make arrangements for Donna and me to fly off later that evening.  
  
We say our good-byes, and I notice both Mom and Donna have tears in their eyes. The women have gotten along well together, and I almost smile, except Mom would ask me why and I'm not ready to explain it yet.  
  
In contrast to the beautiful calmness in Florida, Washington D.C. is full of traffic and confused pedestrians. Christmas Eve is a hectic time anywhere you go, but Washington D.C., as you might imagine, is a little bit above average in that department.  
  
Inside the White House is no different. CJ is mentally beating herself up about the pending PR disaster, Toby is moping, Will is scrambling for any piece of information he can dig up, Angela is taking over for me temporarily. Donna slides into her desk chair without any complaint. Leo is working on some paperwork while Margaret obsesses over him.  
  
The fact that the west wing is operating normally is almost enough to calm me, but a lot has happened in the last twenty-four hours.  
  
I take a deep breath and prepare myself for what will come. 


	9. One More State of the Union

Ù 


End file.
